This entry has been trying to write itself for a couple months now. Still not sure if it should be here, and it may not stay. Lisa and Lio, please skip this one, at least for a couple months.

Our house has two finished bedrooms in the basement. The larger, with narrow windows on the south and east sides, is my office. The other, considerably smaller and decorated in nearly-ugly yellows and greens, was built as a children's room. We call it the Green Room, and the wife initially used it as a sewing room. Which eventually became overwhelmed with projects and storage, and is now just a glorified walk-in closet.

But I rarely go in that room.

I'm afraid.

Afraid of the T-Rex.

It's not a very intimidating T-Rex. About a foot high, mostly green, with a slot in the back for coins. There are (or should be) two others just like it in the boys' room upstairs.

It is no where near as fierce looking as the T-Rex in this office, which is 50 percent taller, and more Godzilla-like in the face. My old fiberboard T-Rex has no toes, as those got broken off as I constantly had it dipping down to munch or chew other dinosaurs or soldiers. Roaring menacingly in a little boy's voice as it did so.

The T-Rex in the Green Room, on the other hand, is in mint condition.

The wife found the green T-Rex banks on a back shelf of a local store, when she was pregnant with our third child. There were three T-Rex banks, so we bought all three. One for each of the boys, and one for the new arrival.

Now, we did not know the sex of this child, but were both hoping for a daughter. My wife especially, so that she could raise a tomboy, just as she was raised.

A girl who would grow up wearing pants and jeans as easily as dresses. Who would have snakes for pets, letting them slither up her sleeves. A daughter to share all those things women pass from one generation to the next. But either way, this child would want a T-Rex bank of her own, so we bought her her first toy.

The spotting started early in the third month. The miscarriage came shortly after.

They teach husbands all sorts of skills in birthing classes, on how to keep the mother relaxed, massaging her, reminding her about her breathing. Holding her hand during contractions.

They don't warn you that you need those same skills when she is bent over on the toilet late at night, expelling what is left of your hopes and dreams.

They don't warn you the doctor would like you to save the embryo, to be examined for any clues to the cause of the miscarriage. Probably more for the peace of mind of the parents than any medical treatment.

Fortunately, such tasks do not gross me out. And I have a rough idea what I'm looking for. And find it, a small elongated white mass in the midst of massive lumps of bloody tissue. Only about a quarter-inch long, no where near as developed as it should be.

Unlike some others, I had no reverence for the mass I held in my bare hands. I know what this is, and what it isn't. And this was not a person. Not a baby. Not yet.

But it was our hopes. It was our dreams. And it already had a toy T-Rex to play with.

One of the first things you learn after having a miscarriage is how common that is. How many other couples have been through the same thing. My mother-in-law had five in between the births of my wife and her older brother. It's just something most folks do not talk about. As if mentioning the word "miscarriage" might actually cause another. Human nature, I guess.

We mourned, we regrouped, gathered our strength and tried again. Tried to give that T-Rex an owner. And failed again, the same way, only about a month sooner this time.

And that was that. The pain was too great to try a third time. Our hopes for a daughter would have to wait for the sons to marry.

That T-Rex sat on top of the dresser in the Green Room ever since. A relic and reminder of a future our family will not have. The only token we have of our other children.

Got brave enough to enter that room last Christmas season, and was surprised to find the T-Rex gone. Finally put into storage by the wife. But I know it is still somewhere in that room.

Every once in a while, when my thoughts wander, or I read the diary of someone experiencing the same pains, I hear that little T-Rex roaring from the other room.

Roaring in a little girl's voice.